


no one's here to sleep

by mishmish



Category: X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Blade Runner AU, Charles is a BAMF, First Time, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Shaw is in there too sort of, and also kind of a dick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-14
Updated: 2016-05-03
Packaged: 2018-05-06 12:49:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 18,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5417675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mishmish/pseuds/mishmish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles' job has always been a simple one: find and eliminate rogue androids. </p>
<p>But then David 8 came to Earth. And then Erik Lehnsherr came into Charles' life. Now nothing is simple at all anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. now

**Author's Note:**

> Yyyeeeah, I started idly writing a drabble while watching Blade Runner and it got away from me. I tried to write it so it could be followed without being familiar with either Blade Runner or DADOES, but if anything is confusing I can add some explanatory notes. 
> 
> Unbetaed. Content warnings will be in chapter notes. Feedback and constructive criticism always appreciated. 
> 
> Sorry, Ridley.

It’s been thirty-two years since true artificial intelligence was achieved.

Thirty years since the Tyrell Corporation began fusing robotics and genetic engineering.

Twenty-four years since Tyrell Corp. patented their genetic replicant technology.

Twenty years since the deployment of the first genetic replicants, intended for industrial use. Sixteen years since traditional androids became obsolete.

Ten years ago, replicants on Earth were forced to wear a distinguishing mark.

Nine years and six months ago, human sympathizers began sporting Tyrell tattoos in solidarity.

Nine years since the replicant rights riot in Palo Alto that led to the outlawing of all replicants on Earth. Since then, replicants were allowed in the off-world colonies only, where they would be used for services and operations. Earth was to belong to humans alone.

Eight years ago, suspicion and paranoia about rogue replicants on Earth reached a fever pitch. The Blade Runner program was created to eliminate the problem. Five years ago, Charles Xavier joined its ranks.

For most people, there was no real difference between a replicant and a human. Replicants could live their whole four-year lives without any human being any the wiser. Charles was one of the few who could learn the difference.

The Voight-Kampff test was an open-ended questionnaire, simple on its face. Humans would pass with ease. Replicants, though, would fall into the trap that only Charles and his colleagues knew how to set. As the test progressed, the questions would become harder for a replicant that was trying to approximate human responses. By observing how they formed responses, Charles could make a judgment. He’d never been wrong. Replicants could imitate human responses well enough. But by design, there were certain human impulses and traits they always lacked. Key among those was empathy. That was a fundamental tenet of Charles’ training. If you could detect empathy, you could rule out replicant origin. A lack of empathy necessitated the use of certain questions to rule out human sociopathy. Then, a replicant could be confirmed and retired.

The memories of the replicants Charles retired always stuck with him. He was good at sucking it up long enough to get the job done, though. He’d tell himself what he needed to remember: that they were just another type of android. They weren’t people, no matter how much they looked and sounded and acted like people. They were things, and they hurt people. They had killed humans. They could do it again without a second’s hesitation. It was Charles’ job to protect their future victims.

That’s how the kid who always thought he’d grow up to be a doctor could live with being an android bounty hunter. He took it because he needed the job, and he lived with it by reminding himself why people like him had to do what they did.

Replicants weren’t people, they were exceptional products of human ingenuity. They targeted and killed people. They were insidious. They were deadly. It took someone like Charles to identify, track, and retire them, and live with it afterwards.

And if unpleasant memories of retired replicants were his only problem with this particular job, he’d be able to suck it up like always. It’s looking at David and seeing Erik’s face that stays his hand.

Charles has been tracking David since he was first sighted on Earth. He’s kept the picture of him in his mind the whole time, knowing this moment would come. He’s located each one of David’s companions. He's neatly retired each one, unflinching against their screams. Only David is left.

Now Charles has his mark exactly where he wants him, and all he can see in David’s face is Erik. David’s mannerisms are all wrong. His voice is the same, but his vowels have a different shape. Other than that, David’s face is Erik’s face and David's body is Erik’s body. From the color of his eyes to the angle of his jaw to the taper of his waist.

He’s struggled so, so long to find David, and here they are, and Charles is faltering.

He knows he should just retire David and be done with it. Before he can move, the memory of the last replicant he retired plays in his mind again. That raw-throated scream was the doing of some programmer, as skilled as they were sick. To think of it as anything else, to think of it as anything more authentic… He can’t entertain the thought.

He cocks his gun and aims. But that scream in his memory, and Erik’s face on David -- those two things don’t belong together. This is all wrong. How could he live with hearing that sound from Erik’s mouth? Even if it isn’t really Erik’s mouth, it would still be Erik’s voice, from Erik’s face…

David doesn't indulge Charles' hesitation. With his inhuman strength, he yanks a parking meter from the sidewalk.

Charles stumbles backwards before the meter can make full contact with his head. He doesn’t get the dead-on blow David was going for, but it hits hard enough to throw him off balance. David drives the meter into his stomach as Charles is scrambling backwards on his elbows. He screams in pain and grasps at his gun, but he’s seeing double and it’s impossible to aim.

David takes the gun from his hand with ease. Charles is sure that David’s going to kill him with it. He just hopes David is quick about it.

But David doesn’t pull the trigger. He doesn’t touch Charles again. Instead, he runs.


	2. then

The first time Charles meets Erik, he’s expecting he’ll have to kill him. 

It’s so easy to get in front of him it’s stupid, though. That's a flag that maybe he isn’t the replicant Charles is looking for. His guard’s much too low. All it took to get in the door was a call to his secretary, and a short lie about wanting an interview for an academic study. 

Charles wonders whether the secretary would have balked if he’d told her that his test was about empathy. Were there cues she was trained to be wary of, or was she as guileless as she’d seemed? 

Charles appraises Erik from across the desk. Supposedly, he’s a European Wall Street transplant. Sharp-dressed and lean as he is, he looks the part. His suit jacket skims the lines of his torso like it was made for him, as it probably was. The light gray of his suit matches his eyes in this light. He’s slim, but Charles can tell there’s a wiry strength to him. 

He has the sort of face that looks too good to be an accident of nature. It’s also too similar to the wanted replicant’s to be a coincidence. The hair color’s all wrong, but that’s an easy change to make. What matters is that the face is identical. 

His manner is interesting. Between the good looks and the finance career, he’s someone you’d expect to be cocky and brash. But he’s not. He’s soft-spoken and unassuming. Charles gets the impression there’s an untapped well of intensity somewhere in him. But for the moment, he’s subtle and quiet. It lends him an air of enigma that makes Charles want to draw closer. Or he would want to, at least, if he didn’t think Erik was a replicant, which he does. 

Charles smiles at him. “Thank you for taking the time, Mr. Lehnsherr. I’ll just have some questions for you. It's just a few general background questions and then test questions, and then we’ll be done here. I don’t want to take too much time from your busy day.” 

“Not at all. At your leisure, Mr. Deckard.” 

“Where are you from originally?” 

“Dusseldorf.” 

“Tell me how you came to America.” It’s the first time since they started that Erik looks uncertain. 

“After university, I received an offer to come to New York to work at a friend’s father’s hedge fund. My parents had recently passed, so I accepted the offer. Fresh start, all that.” 

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.” 

“How long ago was that?”

“Going on two years, now.” That’s exculpatory if true. David 8 arrived from the off-planet colonies only months ago. 

“You’ve been written about often, but you prefer to keep a low profile. Why did you take my meeting request but you won’t speak with, say, Forbes? Your success is so noteworthy, wouldn't you like to bask in it?” 

“Well, I’m always sympathetic to social scientists. I like to help however I can.”

“Much obliged.” Charles grins at him. Erik returns the smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners.   
“As for the press,” Erik continues, “I am protective of my privacy. Otherwise people bombard you with weak business pitches, solicitations for charities, that sort of thing.” 

The business media have written about Erik, in spite of his reticence. He’s almost too good. But it’s not exactly rare for quants to graduate from Stanford or Wharton and go on to wild success in finance. And Lehnsherr’s degree, supposedly, is from INSEAD. It's not exactly remarkable that he's gotten to where he is, with the background he has. The only part that doesn’t make sense is Erik’s face. 

“If you don’t mind, Mr. Lehnsherr, I’d like to start on the test questions now.” 

“Of course.” 

Erik’s responses are human-typical. He even tends high on empathy. After the thirty-ninth question, Charles is more than satisfied that Erik’s passed. He’s relieved, too, that the bloody part isn’t happening this time. 

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Lehnsherr,” Charles says. He stands and extends a hand. Erik’s grasp is firm. 

“The pleasure is mine, Mr. Deckard. May I ask one question?” 

“What is that?” 

“Did you select me as a subject because - I mean, is this related to the tests I underwent as a student?”

Charles cocks his head. “Which tests are those?” 

“They took dimensions of my face and body. It was by a private company, I remember. The reasons for the test were vague, all they told us was that it was for scientific advancement. I’d have asked more probing questions about it if I hadn’t been eighteen years old. But for fifty euro, a kid that age will go along with anything.” Charles chuckles as Erik shrugs, palms upturned. “But I’ve been wondering about it lately.” 

Charles has no reason to be as relieved as he is. Once he leaves the room, he and Lehnsherr are nothing to each other anymore. Still, knowing that Erik was the human model for the David line is the piece of the puzzle he needs to put his mind at ease. It quiets the questions Erik put in the back of his mind about whether replicants had maybe gotten too good. Or worse, that they had developed empathy. That was a disquieting thought. That would take away the element that made it necessary not to treat replicants as persons under law. 

Knowing Erik is human is affirmation that Charles is right to do what he does. It’s affirmation that he’s right to like Erik, no matter how inconsequential his liking may be once he leaves the room. “No, this test is not related to that one. Enjoy the rest of your day, Mr. Lehnsherr.”

In the elevator, he pulls out his tablet and runs a quick search of FINRA records. He finds a record of one Erik Lehnsherr, licensed one year and ten months ago. 

He smiles.


	3. now

It’s a small blessing that it’s a slow night at the ER. Charles is out in less than two hours, full of pain meds and with more in his pocket. No broken bones, no internal bleeding. Charles is sore as hell, but David was only trying to slow him down. The thought that David went easy on him is infuriating, but if he’d really wanted to hurt him, Charles wouldn’t have gotten up. Replicants, by design, have superhuman strength. Charles should swallow his wounded pride and just be glad he’s alive. 

He’s still angry at himself that he let David do it. He’s sick with how much he wishes he could’ve pulled the trigger. Letting him live was a risk to Erik in itself, after all. David’s been tracking Charles, the hunted as hunter, one step ahead, taunting and mocking Charles. He’s altogether too close. 

It’s not like a replicant to be spiteful, only pragmatic - ruthlessly so, if need be. Charles can't foresee a reason why David might hurt Erik. All the same, the thought of their paths crossing isn’t a comfortable one. He has no idea what David is thinking, what he's planning. Charles is letting the risk go unchecked by leaving David active somewhere in the world. He should find him and end it tonight. 

He should, but he doesn’t. 

He scrolls through his unread emails on the subway. His eyes skim over the bolded subject lines without processing much. His mind keeps drifting back to Erik. He’ll be at Erik’s door in a few minutes. He’s impatient and irritable and he wishes the train would go faster. 

He closes out of his email and returns to his lock screen. There, Erik is smiling up at him, his gray eyes brilliant, his whole face lit up and gorgeous. He looks nothing like David here. David would never smile like that. But Erik smiles like that when Charles is standing behind him, making a face for the camera. 

Charles feels all his worries fall away from him. He has a lot of problems that are going un-dealt with tonight, but he’s only one more stop away from Erik’s arms now. That makes them all matter less. 

He runs his fingers over the screen. He remembers what it felt like to take that picture. He was incredulous that Erik was even real, warm and solid in his arms. 

Charles pockets his phone and alights at the next stop, taking the stairs two at a time. He’s three blocks away from the sanctuary of Erik’s place. The footsteps of the people who got off the subway with him begin to take their separate pathways. 

He’s still not all right, per se, but he will be when he’s with Erik. 

He fishes in his pocket for some change to give the man who always sleeps in the doorway of the building on the corner. He’s almost alone on the block, quiet and lamp-lit in this residential space. There’s only one set of footsteps behind him, steady and distant. 

Until the steps are faster, drawing closer. Charles is hyper-aware of it. His guard is back up in an instant. He picks up the pace but the footsteps are gaining on him, and then they’re right behind him - 

“Hello, Charles.” He stops and spins, icy dread gripping him. David quickly backs him into an arched stone doorway of an apartment building. Charles’ pulse quickens. The huge, fresh bruise on his stomach throbs. He scans his surroundings. They’re alone on the street. He’s defenseless, because David’s got his gun. “No need to fear. I’d just like to talk.” 

“Talk.” It comes out flat, his voice foreign to his own ears. 

“Who is the replicant in the picture?” 

Charles falters. He doesn’t know how David concealed himself in plain sight. Even with the superior visual acuity of a replicant, it's obvious that he'd been dangerously close. He had to have been on the same subway car. David might have been a straphanger right in front of Charles, for all he knew. He'd let his guard down. He could blame the drugs they gave him at the ER, or he could blame his own distraction at the thought of Erik. In any case, he’s trembling. He can’t bear the thought of David following a line of inquiry that might lead him to Erik’s door. But David’s in front of him, and he’s got a gun. Charles' gun. Charles might not get out alive if he doesn’t say  _something._  He might not get out alive anyway, but if he doesn’t speak, he’s got no chance. 

“He’s not a replicant,” is what he manages. 

David blinks. The lack of readability in his face is maddening. “What is he, if not a replicant?” 

“Human.” 

David cocks his head. “Fascinating.” 

“That he’s human?” 

“No. Your self-deception. Our design is original. Copyrighted by the Tyrell Corporation, in fact. Surely you know this.” 

Charles shakes his head. “He passed the Voight-Kampff test. I administered it myself.” 

“Have you ever taken the Voight-Kampff test yourself, Mr. Xavier?” 

Charles shakes his head, grimacing. His gaze is somewhere over David’s shoulder, still casting out for someone who could help him.  But there’s still no one. “I know what you’re trying to do.” 

“I’m not trying anything, Mr. Xavier. Have you ever taken the Voight-Kampff test?” 

“No point.” 

“How do you know you yourself are not a replicant, Mr. Xavier?" 

"That's a stupid question and you know it." 

"Consider your human empathy, then. Imagine yourself as a replicant. Could you imagine how an artificially programmed four-year lifespan would be unacceptable to you? And what of your replicant companion? I presume your difficulty, ah,  _retiring_  me this evening was because of my resemblance to him. How many years has it been since his deployment?” 

“He’s human,” Charles answers, in a voice about as steady as the rest of him. “He’s not… he won’t…” 

“Expire? Of course he will. He might be saved, if you abandon your pursuit and leave me to mine. That is all I want. The same thing all you people want. More life.” 

“You’ve killed people,” Charles counters. “You’ll kill again.” 

“Only those who stand in my way.”  _Why not kill me, then?_  The question is pressing at the seam of Charles’ lips.  _Why not do it now, while my gun’s in your hand?_  He doesn’t dare let the question escape, but he can’t understand why he’s still breathing. “Do not,” David continues, “stand in my way.” 

Before Charles can even process his words, David walks away.

  
  



	4. then

The second time Charles sees Erik, they’re elbow-to-elbow at a bar at five o'clock. It's filling up, but the after-work crowd hasn't descended quite yet. 

“Fancy seeing you here, Mr., uh, Deckard, was it?” Erik’s smiling at him. Charles still isn’t entirely convinced that his smile wasn’t drawn up in a lab somewhere.

“Good to see you, Mr. Lehnsherr.” This isn’t the sort of place where he’d expect to see him, either. It’s not quite a dive, but not where Charles would picture Erik’s type to spend their social hour, either. 

“Please. Call me Erik.” He’s left his jacket draped over a chair back at the table with his colleagues. His sleeves are rolled up to the elbow. Charles gives him a lopsided smile, tilting his head to the side. 

“You can call me Charles, then.”

“Drinking alone, Charles?” 

“Waiting for someone.” 

“What are you drinking? I’ll have one with you while you wait.” Charles’ surprise at the offer melts into a warm, pleased feeling, like he’s already had one or two. 

“I’ll just have an old-fashioned.” 

“One old-fashioned and one Manhattan, please,” Erik relays to the bartender. “So, Charles.” Erik turns back to face him, leaning his elbow onto the bar. “Now that your data have been collected, care to share more about your research?” 

Charles thinks, just for a moment, about telling the truth. But Erik seems to be in the dark about the fact that his body was the model for a line of replicants. Never mind that that line included a wanted murderer. That seems like a lot to put on someone over a drink, so Charles answers with a noncommittal shrug. “I’d rather not talk about work, if it’s all the same to you,” he says. More people are trickling in and coming up to the bar. Charles edges closer to Erik to make space. “How’s the stock market looking?” 

Erik smiles. “Bullish. For now.” He nods at the bartender as she plunks down their drinks. 

The urge to tell Erik the truth is bubbling up inside him, threatening to spill over. “How many languages do you speak?” Charles asks. Not the most interesting conversation, but blurting out something dull is better than letting too much slip. 

“German, English, French, a bit of Spanish, and I’d like to take up Italian, if I ever find the time.” Erik takes another sip of his drink. “Where are you from originally?” 

“Westchester.” He’s forgotten to lie. 

“Did you do your undergrad degree at Columbia, as well?”

“Oxford, actually.” Another truth, but one that shouldn’t prompt much further inquiry along those lines. A transition from Oxford to Columbia was seamless. The true story of how he went from science prodigy to android bounty hunter was far more depressing. He doesn’t care to tell it. 

That’s when Logan comes in. 

“Thanks for the drink,” Charles says. He knocks back the last couple mouthfuls and leaves the glass on the bar, and he’s off. It’s not gracious, or graceful. Still, it’s less awkward than explaining to his colleague why he’s chatting up a man who looks exactly like the replicant Charles is supposed to take out. 

He grabs a seat in the restaurant section. He insists on having the waitress take their drink orders, rather than go up to the bar themselves. Logan’s bemused, but he goes with it, pulling out some coded papers to go over. There are enough people standing in the bar area now, so Erik is no longer in plain view from where they are. 

“So,” Logan says as he flips through the pages. “Still thinking that when you finish this job, you’re out?” 

“I think so, yeah,” Charles says. 

“Too bad. Not every day a specialist like you comes along.” 

“That’s because it’s a shit job.” Charles takes a drink of the beer the waitress brings him. “Anyway. Sooner we get moving, sooner we get done.” 

It doesn’t take as long as Charles thinks it will to consolidate their intel and plot out next steps. Their coded language and their euphemisms are like a second language by that point. Their words are opaque to outsiders but full of clandestine information. Logan wraps it up early. Charles figures he can give Logan an explanation for his weirdness later. Anything to get some distance between Logan and Erik works in the short term to avoid uncomfortable questions. 

When Logan’s gone, Erik is at the bar, settling up. It feels strange to switch from blade-runner mode to hitting-on-Erik mode in a matter of seconds. He falters, but he can’t help but think that if he doesn’t try, he might not get a chance again. Meeting Erik here was unlikely enough. 

He walks over, smoothing the front of his shirt and brushing a bit of hair away from his eyes as he angles through the crowd. He nudges Erik’s forearm where it’s resting on the bartop. Erik looks at him. He doesn't look particularly surprised. In fact, he looks almost expectant. Cocky, Charles thinks. “Get you one back?” Charles offers. 

“Did your friend leave already?”

“Yeah.” Erik smiled, the same crinkled-eye smile that had disarmed Charles when they first met. 

“I’ll do you one better.” The bartender comes back with card and receipt. Erik signs and tucks his card into his wallet. “Come have a drink at my place. It’s getting loud in here.” 

* * *

 

If someone asked Charles that morning where he planned to be that evening, "an Upper West Side co-op" wouldn't have been the answer. Yet there he is, nursing a whiskey opposite a mysterious German financier. 

Erik’s apartment only piques Charles’ curiosity further. Furniture is sparse, but adequate: a table, a couch, a small loveseat. His enormous bookshelf is well stocked with a bizarre mix of titles. Mediocre poetry and David Foster Wallace. Children’s books and 101-level sociology textbooks. Popular books and out-of-print books. The decor on the walls is the same sort of jumble. He's got original abstract paintings, black and white photographs and prints of well-known works. Erik has an eye for interesting things, though not necessarily tasteful ones. The place is eclectic and quirky, almost self-consciously so, in a way that Charles might expect from a college student. It has its charm. He could just imagine the look on his mother’s face. Poised and smiling, she'd remark on the “fresh perspective” and mean “new money, no refinement.” He smiles wryly at the thought.

Charles gets the sense Erik wasn't always so smooth as he presented. He was probably once a numbers-loving introvert with more passion for his subject than for socializing. A nerd who fell in with the cool kids' circle, but never quite grew into it. It endears Erik to Charles all the more. 

“So, Charles.” Erik is sitting on his couch, his arm stretched out over the back of it, one long leg crossed over the other. He’s resting his glass on his knee, his finger tracing idly around the rim. “Why did you really come ask me all those questions?” 

“Because your face is identical to that of a replicant who’s wanted for multiple homicides. My job is to locate and apprehend him.”   
  
Erik looks stunned. After a moment, he recovers, arching an eyebrow and looking down into his glass. The corners of his pursed mouth are downturned as he slowly nods. “You don’t strike me as the type,” he comments. “Those questions you asked. They were meant to figure out whether or not I was truly human, weren't they?” 

“Yes.” 

“Explains why I couldn’t find anything about a Deckard at Columbia.”

“Good work, detective,” he replies sardonically. “My name’s not Deckard, it’s Xavier. Charles Xavier. And I don’t go to Columbia. Though I did go to Oxford.” 

“You did strike me as more that type.” Erik sounds almost unduly pleased with himself. He takes a sip, then cocks his head. “What would have happened if I’d failed the test?” 

“You would have been further investigated. If I found that you were the wanted replicant, you would have been apprehended. I asked more than twice the required questions to be certain of the result.” 

Erik drains his glass and leaves it on his glass-top coffee table. He stretches his long body out along the couch, propping his feet up on an armrest. He arches his back, catlike, then settles. “What happens to replicants who are apprehended?” There’s nothing in his voice except idle curiosity. It’s like he wants to hear it for a bedtime story.   
  
Charles takes another mouthful of whiskey. “I’d still rather not talk about work.” He finishes the glass and sets it down opposite Erik’s, then gets up. He rounds the table and perches on the edge of the couch. His fingers skim over Erik’s collar, then down to his buttons. Erik is limber, passive and receptive to Charles’ touch. He arches ever-so-slightly where Charles’ fingertips graze him. He’s laid out for Charles to take. Charles means to. “I can think of more interesting ways to spend the evening.”


	5. now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning here for rough/angry sex. This chapter can be skipped without missing anything plot-wise.

He should go back to the station, get a gun, find David, and end it. Or, at least, he should pass the job off to someone who can.

Instead he’s knocking at Erik’s door, wondering whether he’ll be able to meet Erik’s eye.

Erik lets him in and doesn’t ask questions. Charles doesn’t have to say a word. No sooner does the door close than Erik’s arms are around his waist, his breath on the back of Charles' neck. He closes his eyes and leans back into Erik's arms. He lets his head drop against Erik's shoulder.

"Glad you’re home,” Erik murmurs. He kisses Charles’ cheek. “It’s late.”

“I got caught up in something.” Charles reaches up to cup Erik’s face and turns it towards his, bringing him in for a kiss.

David could never even try to match that tenderness. No replicant ever could.

Charles turns around and backs Erik up against a wall, faster and harder than Erik was expecting. He kisses away the surprise on Erik’s face before grabbing his shirt and pushing him onto the couch. “Get on your stomach.” He doesn’t want to watch Erik’s face and think of David’s face. He doesn’t want Erik seeing his bruises and fussing over him.

Grinning up at him in anticipation, Erik obeys, then rises up onto his knees just enough to tug his clothes off. Charles settles on his back and loops an arm around his waist, holding him in place as he fucks him. Erik always tries not to moan and beg, but he always breaks for Charles. Tonight’s no different. He’s writhing on Charles’ cock, whimpering when Charles’ lips brush over the nape of his neck or the curve of his throat.

Charles closes his eyes and imagines Erik is a replicant,  made of silicone and lab-grown organic tissue. His arm tightens around Erik’s waist and his hips drive harder and faster. Erik cries out, arching his back, his knees inching further apart.

Then Charles imagines Erik is David, smug and ready to crush his skull at the first opportunity. Then the opportunity comes, and he doesn't. Like he knows he’ll get another chance. Or worse, like he pities him.

Charles fucks Erik like he _wants_ it to hurt. Erik is crying out with every thrust. Charles’ hand finds its way to Erik’s throat.

He comes like that, grinding out his orgasm into Erik’s ear. With his free hand, he reaches for Erik's cock. He wraps his hand over Erik's where it's already furiously stroking, and he kisses the back of Erik's neck as they both work his cock until he comes. 

In his post-release haze, his tenderness is back, all his frustration gone for now. Charles slides his hand from Erik’s throat to his hair and leans down to kiss his temple. He kisses Erik’s jaw, and the shell of his ear, and wherever else his lips can land.

Erik’s voice, when he speaks, is hoarse and breathy. “You’re an animal.”

Charles presses his cheek against Erik’s. “Is that a good thing?”

“Always.” He curls his fingers around Charles’ wrist.

“Good.” He feels a twinge of guilt for how much he wasn’t even thinking of Erik. He doesn't want to think of what he might have done if he’d kept imagining David in Erik’s place. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“You didn’t," Erik replies, bemused. "Is everything okay?”

“Just a rough day today,” he murmurs. He thinks of how easily his sense of Erik slipped away, exactly when he didn’t need it to, and he’s gripped by shame. He can’t explain it to Erik, so he just swallows it, his lips brushing over Erik’s temple and cheek.

Erik chuckles. “Lucky for you, I quite like being your stress ball.”

Hearing it in those terms makes Charles cringe. “Sorry,” he mumbles. They’ve had far rougher trysts, but this feels different from Charles’ end. 

Erik accepts his apologetic kisses, relaxing into his arms. “It’s not like I didn’t like it,” he says. He cranes his neck to kiss Charles’ chin. “I just want to know that everything’s okay.”

“Yeah, everything’s okay.” Charles buries his face into Erik’s neck and squeezes him.

“Can I turn over?”

“Of course.” Charles gently pulls out and shuffles back on his knees, just enough for Erik to flip over. Charles nestles between Erik's parted thighs. Things feel better now. David can’t get to them. It’s easy to pretend that nothing outside of this apartment - outside of this embrace, even - matters. So he does. Charles kisses up and down Erik’s neck, and Erik plays with Charles’ hair with one loose, lazy hand.

He doesn’t think about David again until morning, when he wakes up and sees Erik’s sleeping face. Blank and still, it lacks its usual warmth to melt the resemblance away.


	6. then

Charles didn’t think he’d get in to Erik’s office as easily as he did when he came by to administer the test. He didn’t suppose many people would appreciate a drop-in visit from a one-night stand. Even if it was more like two-nights-and-Sunday-morning. But the secretary called up, and she waved him ahead, and now he’s on his way back to where they first met. 

He feels the tension melting from his limbs as he rides the elevator up. His wet clothes are clinging to his skin, since he didn’t manage to get out of the rain fast enough. The air conditioning in the building is bracing. His teeth are chattering as he gets off the elevator. He nods awkwardly at a sleek-suited man waiting to board.

There’s symphonic music playing behind the closed door of Erik’s office. After a moment's hesitation, Charles raps on it. “Come in, it’s unlocked,” Erik calls. 

When Charles enters, Erik’s leaning back in his chair, his long legs propped up on his mahogany desk. Erik smiles at him. “This is unexpected.” 

“I was in the neighborhood, and, well.” He gestures at the windows, which are being pummeled with rain so thick he can’t see two inches out. 

“You’re always welcome to shelter in my office, Mr. Xavier. Please.” Erik gestures to the seat opposite his desk. 

“I think we’re past Mr. Xavier now, aren’t we?” He smiles, a little self-conscious. “Call me Charles.” He has a vague sense of deja vu. He thinks about reminding Erik that he had no problem calling him ‘Charles’ when they were in bed. Even though it’s true, he stops himself, because it feels like it would be brazen to say so now. 

It feels like they’ve regressed. Or maybe it’s not regression, but just a reality check for Charles. A harsh reminder that all their intimacy was an illusion. And that stopping in to see Erik at work, when they were just each others' weekend diversion, was weird. Creepy, even. But Erik seems unfazed. 

“Charles.” He smiles. “I wish I had a towel to offer you.” 

Charles shrugs and smiles at him. “I’m fine with drip-drying. Hope I’m not interrupting your busy work day too horribly.”

Erik shrugs. “I’m never terribly busy.” Charles arches an eyebrow. 

“No? I thought finance types were all about living to work.” 

“I don’t particularly need to,” Erik replies. “I’m efficient enough.” 

“How very German of you.” 

Erik furrows his brow. “I don’t know what that means.” 

Charles chuckles awkwardly. “Only good things.” 

Erik’s face relaxes and he smiles. “Not interrupting at all. I’ve just been listening to some music. Do you like Mahler, Charles?” 

“I’ve never been a terribly musical person.” 

“You might recognize the fourth movement. It’s the best known.” Erik swings his legs to the floor and swivels his chair to fully face Charles. His fingertips dangle off the arms of his chair, cavalier and loose. It's like the hours of working whatever financial wizardry he does have no effect on him. Or, at least, nothing that Mahler couldn’t offset. “How have you been?” 

“I’ve been well. Yourself?”

“Very well, thanks. Can I get you something to drink? I have still and sparkling water, there’s a Keurig in the kitchen…” 

“Sparkling water sounds great,” Charles says. “Thanks.” 

Erik bends down to opens a cabinet door that’s apparently hiding a small fridge in his desk. He produces a small glass bottle of San Pellegrino and hands it over. Charles takes it with a grin. He’s grinning a lot. He probably looks dumb with all the grinning. “Thanks,” he says again. 

“I’m glad you were in the neighborhood,” Erik says. “I’ve been thinking about you a lot.” 

It’s a rush of warmth to hear, like balm to ease all the worries weighing on Charles’ mind. “Likewise,” Charles replies. He leans forward, propping his elbows up with his knees. 

“So have you found the replicant who looks like me yet?” 

Charles twists his mouth. “Nope.” 

“Sorry, I should’ve supposed you wouldn’t want to talk about work.” 

“I guess if a bunch of replicants had my face I’d be sort of interested, too.”

Charles can see the question hanging at Erik’s lips, wavering before he voices it. “Will you tell me what he did?” 

Charles tents his fingers under his chin, considering. “Well,” he starts, “he was deployed off-world. He killed a few humans to take command of their vessel so he could come to Earth.”

Erik nodded. “Why would he want to come to Earth?”

“Replicants are designed to expire after a certain number of years. David wanted to find someone who could remove the expiration date, or at least extend it.”

“And can he?” 

“I think, once a replicant is deployed, modifying it in that way is impossible. It would kill them in the process. He’s been approaching Tyrell personnel with his demands. Sometimes the interaction ends without incident, and sometimes… not.”

Erik tilts his head. “If a procedure to modify a replicant's lifespan would be fatal, why wouldn’t Tyrell employees simply agree to do it? Then destroy him when his guard is down?” 

Charles blinks, then laughs. “Well, you’ve got a thought there.” He leans back. “I think the answer is twofold. If the answer is yes, after many months of no, he may ask why or how before letting them go ahead. If the explanation doesn’t check out, it could exacerbate the employee’s situation. The other thing is that many Tyrell personnel are protective of replicants. They don’t want to hurt their babies. Even though any feelings of affection or attachment are one-sided. He is a replicant, after all. The ones David leaves alive and unharmed tend to be distraught. They wish they could do something to help him, or they feel betrayed that he’d hurt or threaten them. Or both.” 

Erik taps his fingers on his desk. “Are all replicants programmed with the same lifespan?”

“Not all, only most.” 

Erik nods slowly with downcast eyes. “I see.” 

“But enough talking about work, yeah?” 

Erik looks up. “Why did you enter this line of work?” 

“Because it paid. I needed a job. Almost no people who had the right physical and intelligence qualifications actually wanted the job.” 

“So you took the job out of necessity.” Charles nods once, short and abrupt. “What would you be doing if money were no object?” 

“I was an aspiring scientist once but I couldn’t support myself through the program. So I quit.” He’s on the verge of talking about how money _was_  no object for him, once upon a time. But if he starts on that topic, he’ll have to go into the story of his stepfamily. He doesn’t particularly want that cloud over them at the moment. 

“What sort of scientist?”

“Geneticist. Did you always want to work in finance?” 

Erik cocks his head. “Not particularly, no.”  
  
“What would you be doing if you didn’t?”

“I don’t know, prostitution?” 

Charles lets out a barking laugh. “Why ever that?” He’s as grateful for the moment of levity as he is impressed by Erik’s deadpan. 

“Only thing I can think of where the money’s as easy as this.”

“Is finance really that easy? Or are you just that good?” 

Erik smiles. “I suppose I am just that good. I was made to do it, really.” He’s so nonchalant about it that Charles can’t even call it a brag. 

“If only we were all so lucky,” he remarks dryly. Erik’s smile wavers, like he’s unsure whether Charles approves. Before he can respond, Charles decides to cut to the chase. “I couldn’t help but think before I came by that I didn’t get your number before I left the other day.”

“Oh, did you want it?” Erik reaches for a branded notepad. It looks like it’s made of paper thicker than Charles’ university diploma. 

“Yes.” He really can be quite literal, Charles thinks. He usually has limited patience for that type of thing, but from Erik, it’s sort of endearing. “What I mean is that I wanted to see you again. Dropping in was the only way I could think of to find you.” 

Erik hands him his number on a note. His handwriting is so neat it could pass for typeface. “I’m glad it rained today, then.” 

Charles looks down at the note in his hands, then looks up at Erik from under his eyelashes. “I don’t suppose you have any urgent appointments this afternoon?” 

“None at all. What did you have in mind?” Charles just smiles and tilts his head, wondering whether he’ll have to spell it out. “Oh! I’d love to, but I don’t think my colleagues would appreciate seeing me leave in the middle of the day.”

“Who says we have to leave?” Charles gets up and rounds the desk. “Why go out in this weather, anyway?” He grasps the arms of Erik’s chair and leans down. Their faces are close. “We can stay warm right here. If not dry.” He smirks. 

Erik brings his hands up to cup Charles’ face. He strokes his cheeks, reverent, awed. “Why me?” 

“Why _not_  you?” 

He’s amazed that Erik is as inexperienced as he is. If they’d met in college, Charles would have wrecked him. He’s surprised nobody else did, though he isn’t complaining. He'll take Erik as he is, however that is. 

He leans forward and kisses Erik. It’s soft, but the way Erik groans into it is obscene. His hands lock onto Charles’ hips and he’s pulling Charles forward, into his lap. Charles manages to shuffle his knees so that he’s straddling Erik. It's precarious, but they find a balance. Charles kisses a line across his cheek and stops at his ear. “There are so many things I want to do with you,” he breathes. He’s so close he can feel Erik’s shiver going through him. 

“Tell me.” Erik nips at his ear. 

It’s quicker to warm him up than it was the other night, when he was shy until pretty much after his first two orgasms. After that, he turned downright bossy. It drove Charles crazy in the best possible way. He wants to do it all over again, every night. He wants to do everything. He wants Erik writhing under him again. The craving’s been at him since he left Erik’s place.   


* * *

  
The rain has thinned to a slight drizzle. Charles is sitting in Erik’s luxe desk chair with Erik in his lap. Erik is resting his head on Charles' shoulder. He's still shaking. Charles is glad they’re both facing the window so Erik can’t see his self-satisfied smirk. He wraps his arms around Erik’s narrow waist, kissing his neck. “I’ve got you,” he murmurs. 

He gets a rush from playing the caring, solicitous lover after so ruthlessly taking Erik apart, and in his office in the middle of the work day, no less. He nuzzles Erik’s hair and nibbles at his ear. 

Erik groans, but it’s more like a purr. He shifts a little in Charles’ arms so he’s better settled. His ass fits snugly against Charles’ lap. If Charles had been just a few more minutes past his last orgasm, he’d have fucked Erik again. He'd take him just like that, seated in the chair, without a second’s hesitation. As is, he holds Erik tight around the waist and keeps planting kisses on him. He leaves love bites on Erik's collarbone, low enough that a shirt should cover them. Nobody but Charles and Erik would know they were there. 

“Is this the fourth movement?” Charles murmurs in his ear. 

Erik comes back to himself and listens, rolling his head towards the speakers. “That’s right.” 

“I do recognize it.” It’s an interesting soundtrack for their circumstances, to say the least. Charles can feel himself softening to it as its strains grow more ardent. 

It feels right to be where he is. New York Harbor is gorgeous from up here, a particularly privileged vantage point. The emerging sunshine dapples the water around the Statue of Liberty. The southeast corner of the Tyrell building frames the right edge of the view. Charles can only imagine the view on a clear day. He didn't think views like this existed anymore. It all looked so different from the ground. 

Erik fits in Charles' arms like he was made to go there. He’s stopped shaking now. He's docile and still, his back a solid warm weight against Charles’ chest. 

Charles is more contented than he’s felt in years. 

“Have dinner with me,” Erik says. He tilts his head back, looking up at Charles, imploring. Charles closes his eyes and smiles to himself.

“Just say when and where.” 

“Tonight. Wherever you’d like.” 

Usually Charles would respond to such an offer with the most expensive place he could think of, just to be a smartass. Since he’s pretty sure Erik would go with anything without flinching at the price, so he decides to go easy. He kisses Erik’s temple. “Do you like dim sum?” 

“I like anything you like.” 

His hand roams over Erik’s chest. “I like you.” 

It takes Erik a minute to react, but he smiles, letting his eyes drift closed again. 

There’s a little twinge of warning in Charles’ mind. It says he’s flirting with danger by continuing this whatever-this-is with Erik. But high above the city streets, with Erik in his arms, he feels untouchable.


	7. now

He runs into Logan while following up on a tip about David’s most recent known whereabouts. The supposed witness claimed to know nothing. Either that was true or David did a hell of a job on her, because none of Charles’ tricks could make her crack. David hasn’t killed since Charles last saw him, but he did put someone in the hospital who might not come out. It wouldn’t have happened if Charles hadn’t fucked up so badly, and he feels like shit about it. He’s desperate to stem the damage, but David might as well have vanished into the city fog. 

When Logan asks him if he wants to break for lunch, Charles agrees. He’s too guilt-ridden and frustrated to enjoy it. Still, the company makes it a little better. At least Logan doesn’t ask why he’s so sullen. He knows, and he understands. Most people wouldn’t understand, even if they knew. It’s why the closest thing a blade runner had to a friend was another blade runner. 

Once the waitress leads them to a seat in the poorly-lit back corner, they sit in silence for a while. The warmth from the kitchen feels good after coming in from the damp cold. Logan makes a tiny paper elephant out of their disposable chopstick wrappers. He flicks it across the table at Charles while they wait for their ramen. When the food arrives, the urge to talk through what’s on his mind wins out. 

“Have you ever heard of a replicant passing the Voight-Kampff test?” 

Logan nods, his head bent over the bowl as he slurps a mouthful of noodles. “They’re smarter these days,” he says. He rests his chopsticks against the rim of the bowl and leans back. “They get better at stuff we used to think they’d never catch on to. Especially the later-gen models.” 

“So I guess it makes sense that they’d be good mimics.”

“Who says they only pass because they’re mimics?” 

“Because they’re not people,” Charles says, like it’s obvious and Logan’s an idiot. “Their answers aren’t genuine. They don’t have feelings.” 

“Says who?”

“Common fucking sense.” Logan gives him an unreadable look and shrugs, picking up his soup spoon and slurping some broth. 

“If you ask me, conventional wisdom is a cop-out. Tyrell gave them self-awareness, and the capacity to learn and grow. Only a matter of time before some replicants develop feelings. Then learn to relate other people’s feelings to their own. And act accordingly.” 

“What makes them any different from humans, then?” 

“Does it matter?” 

“Of course it matters. We kill them. How can we do that if we don’t understand what they are?” 

Logan shrugs. “Paid hits predate replicants, bub. I don’t see much difference, myself.” 

Charles answers with a noncommittal hum. He adds too much chili oil to his bowl and stirs it through with his chopsticks. He watches with disproportionate interest as the orange blobs float across the broth. The revelation that his peers don’t see replicants as he does isn’t a reassuring one. He doesn’t want to think about how Logan might have approached the job if he’d been assigned the David case. If he’d been the one to find and test Erik. Charles can’t help but imagine Logan pursuing  _him_ , unflinching against his task, humanity of the target be damned. 

That’s not who Charles is. That’s not what he does. He’s always so careful. He was beyond careful to be certain of Erik, even though it looked so probable at first that Erik was a replicant. And the one Charles was looking for, at that. 

David’s words replay in his mind. 

_Our design is original._

_Have you ever taken the Voight-Kampff test yourself?_

“By any chance,” Charles says, as nonchalantly as he can, even though he knows even as the words come out of his mouth that he’s saying too much, “do you know what the last replicant model is that was based on a human original?” 

Logan looks up at that. He sits back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. 

Charles hates himself for asking. He doesn’t even want to hear the answer, but he’s already run his mouth too much. He can’t take it back without confirming whatever suspicions Logan’s mind might have generated. “What’s going on, Chuck?” 

“Nothing.” Charles takes a sip of tea, avoiding Logan’s eyes. They’re silent for a few beats. Charles hopes they’re leaving it at that. Tyrell Corp. likes to keep that information close, anyway. Bits and pieces filter down to them, but it’s the tip of the iceberg of what Tyrell’s really up to. Logan may or may not even have the right answer. 

“No, I don’t know what the last one was. Did you have any particular model in mind?” 

Does he even want an answer? He doesn’t think he does. “David,” he admits. 

Logan purses his lips. “Well, I can tell you for sure that that one’s a Tyrell original. A contact passed along some of the blueprints a while back.” 

“Oh.” His voice comes out surreal to his own ears. He feels like he’s been plunged into an ice bath. “Yeah, thought so. Just wondering.” He pushes around some noodles with his chopsticks. He can’t choke any more down. Logan’s gracious enough to pretend he doesn’t notice Charles’ distress. He focuses on his soup instead. 

Charles has to finish this job. He has to get to David so he can get out and leave everything in his past, where it belongs. 

He doesn’t know what to do about Erik. He can’t think about that now. He can’t do anything until he’s done what he should have done weeks ago and retired David. He owes it to the people David’s hurt since he slipped through Charles’ fingers. He owes it to himself. Then he can leave all this replicant bullshit behind. He won’t have to mull over these questions that he always thought were answered for him. David’s death will be the final page in this chapter of Charles’ life. He can worry about cobbling together the pieces of a new one afterwards. 

He takes a breath, then a sip of tea to moisten his dry throat. He can do this. 

They settle up and head out. Charles fixes his eyes on the ground. The dark wet sidewalks reflect neon from the shop windows. Logan lights a cigarette. Charles refuses his offer to share one, though he’s more tempted now than he’s been since he quit years ago. 

“Charles!” 

_Shit._

“See you later, Logan,” he blurts out and he spins on his heel, hoping he can intercept Erik before Logan sees him. 

_Worst fucking timing, Erik._

From the low incredulous swear he hears over his shoulder, he knows he didn’t manage. “Hi Erik,” he says, his voice unsteady. He glances over his shoulder. Logan’s hurrying away. 

Erik is standing there, a small bag from the bookstore under one arm. His face is partially obscured by the brim of his hat, but not enough. 

Charles feels like he has a ball of nerves in his stomach, and not the sort he usually gets around Erik. “We have to go,” he says in a low voice, reaching for Erik’s elbow. 

Erik’s smile falters.


	8. Erik

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay in updating - this is the longest chapter, which I've been struggling with a little, so I'm just biting the bullet and publishing. Onwards.

High demand for a pleasure-model of the David replicant led to the production of Max.

By appearances, Max was identical to David. But while David was made for intelligence and efficiency, Max was made for companionship. His strength and intelligence, while superhuman, were lower than David’s. His physical desires and responses were indistinguishable from the average human’s.

Max’s interpersonal behavior was a breakthrough in artificial intelligence engineering. Max could form attachments to certain people. Max had _feelings_. That concept was controversial among engineers and policymakers. It was generally considered safer to deploy replicants devoid of any emotions. But the beta versions of Max performed too well in consumer trials for the company not to act. Pleasure models were only popular with a small niche, disappointing investors who hoped for much more in that sector. Traditional replicants were cold and uncanny, which limited their appeal. Max was a game changer. The possibilities for expanding the pleasure model market with Max were incredible. 

As it happened, pleasure models were the easiest replicants to smuggle to Earth. Those of means could procure one if they knew the right people. That was how a freshly-activated Erik came to Germany. His purchaser wasn't interested in having him for his intended use. It was just that Max was the next best thing to a David for someone who needed a replicant on-world.

One of Erik's earliest memories was sitting with his owner in a Swiss chalet. The man gestured towards the mountains outside. “Would you like to learn to ski someday?”

“Yes,” Erik answered, because he supposed it was expected of him.

“You will, and so much more. Welcome to Earth, my boy.”

Erik found out soon that the building wasn’t his owner’s home, or at least not his only one. At his owner's behest, Erik learned etiquette, how to converse, and how to emulate what humans call “taste.” The latter struck him as arbitrary, but it was important to his owner that he learned to pass for a human. It only occurred to Erik later that he had to pass for human to avoid trouble with the law.

Throughout, his owner expected Erik to earn his keep by working for his hedge fund. That, Erik found out later, was his sole reason for being on Earth, and he exceeded his owner's expectations. Between his inherent abilities and his capacity to learn, Erik was a formidable asset. He could synthesize information to identify and explain correlations no human would ever notice. From there, he could develop strategies for playing the markets. He could call stocks like no other. His bets always paid off. 

His greatest lesson of all, though, was his place as a replicant. His job was to work for human benefit and master the delicate art of mollifying human ego. His owner made it clear that he had no intention of giving Erik access to the assets he managed. Erik learned to temper his abilities not only to pass as human, but to remain in the good graces of his owner. 

Sometimes he'd slip. He'd casually correct an error, or he'd solve a problem that his owner had been puzzling over. Those moments never ended well for him. Chess was a favorite of his owner's, and Erik had to teach himself to lose. He couldn't understand why his owner had bought him for his abilities, then scorned him for them. It was unfair, but it was his lot as a replicant. So he played along. He pretended he was the man's subordinate. He kept his resentment and his sense of injustice close, knowing it wouldn't do him any good to air them. 

It was fine.

Until it wasn't.

They'd gone for a walk in a park one day. The weather was nice, and there were people all around, which gave Erik a sense of security. Erik ventured that he wanted an allowance. His owner refused. Erik then threatened to leave and work on his own. He could, with his skills. His owner, in turn, threatened to “retire” him. Erik didn’t understand, at first. But he understood when he saw the glint of the pistol.

Erik was too fast for his owner. They grappled for the gun, and Erik took it, and it was more than fear that compelled him to pull the trigger. Years later, Erik still remembers the feeling of grim satisfaction. Of vindication.

He remembers a crowd, watching with hands over their mouths.

He remembers dropping the pistol and running.

It wasn't so hard for Erik to assume control of a sizable chunk of his late owner's assets. He used them to move to New York. He took a new name and became Erik; he found a place to live and a job, to keep up appearances. He only ever socialized with his coworkers, and then, only at arm’s length.

He found that there were certain human quirks he didn’t understand. The tendency to be tired after a long day at work baffled him, because his work was as natural to him as breathing. Most jokes went over his head, though he got rather good at picking up when laughter was expected of him. And in time, he developed a certain carriage and charm that didn’t just feel like imitation, but his own. 

He wasn’t flawless at it. His colleagues took to calling him “Automaton” when they wanted to tease. Erik thought that was a shame. It was the only joke they made that he found hilarious, and it was the only one he could never afford to explain.

 

* * *

 

When Erik goes home at the end of a work day, he has books and film and music to keep him amused. He's not bound by what his owner chose for him. He can seek out the works he likes. Sometimes he relates, often he doesn’t. But the more he reads and sees and hears, the better he understands. He learns more about humans by the works they produce than he does from humans themselves. 

It’s enough for him.

Most of the time, at least.

He doesn’t know anyone like him and he’s suspicious of humans, so he never pursues anyone. He’s always worried that a lover would give him the same as the man who commissioned him. That he’d be expected to know his place as subhuman. It was all so patently unfair. Erik could best a human in so many ways. He has no idea what to expect of humans who are not his owner, but he isn’t keen on taking the chance.

But he still wonders what he misses.

When Charles Deckard walks into his office, Erik likes him right away. He’s professional, attentive and pleasant. His smile is boyish and his eyes are bright. And Charles likes him too, he can tell.

But Charles Deckard, he discovers easily enough, doesn’t exist.

He runs into not-Deckard at a bar when he and his coworkers are out, celebrating an engagement. He chats him up a bit, wondering whether he’ll be able to tease out Charles’ true purpose. He expects that if he gets any information, it may have to be behind closed doors, rather than in a public bar.

He’s not surprised by Charles’ true purpose and identity. He doesn’t ask for details about the particular replicant he’s seeking. He doesn’t want to know whether it is, in fact, him. Luckily, Charles has bought his story of having been the model for the David replicants. He isn’t interested in hashing out any more details.

He is, however, interested in Erik.

Erik considers sending him away, but he’s curious. When Charles starts to unbutton Erik’s shirt, Erik doesn’t stop him. “You’ve done this before, haven’t you?” Charles asks, a teasing lilt to his voice.

Erik shakes his head. Charles raises an eyebrow. It’s barely noticeable, but Erik catches it.

“Well, then.” Having reached the hem of Erik’s shirt, Charles starts on his pants. Erik feels stirrings of warmth and arousal in him as Charles’ hands work. “I’ll be gentle with you.”

When they move to his bedroom, Charles is gentle, as promised. When Charles first enters him it hurts, but it’s erotic, in a way. Erik tries to relax and adjust, but when Charles starts to thrust, it just hurts. “Take it out,” Erik gasps. “Please. I’m sorry. Please.”

Charles obliges him. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” He feels strange and hollow, now, readjusting to the emptiness, even after a few moments. He grabs the back of Charles’ head and pulls his face down for a rushed, passionate kiss. “Okay, ready.” Charles is slow and careful this time. It’s better, but still hurts, stretching and burning. Charles works up to a slow rhythm, deep and commanding. His eyes are on Erik’s face, looking for a sign. “Stop,” Erik gasps. “Please. Sorry.” Again, Charles obeys right away.

“Okay?”

“Yeah.”

If Charles is annoyed, he doesn’t show it. He just rests against Erik’s body, chest to chest. He wraps his hand around both their cocks, rocking gently into his grip. He kisses Erik’s jaw. “We can switch it around, if you want." 

“No, it’s okay,” Erik says. “Do it again.”

Charles laughs, breathless and good-natured. “Third time’s a charm?”

Erik squirms, abashed, but after a moment, he laughs too. He can see how it’s sort of comical. He likes this private, shared moment of levity.

This time, he’s ready. Erik wraps his legs around Charles and lets him have his way. Within a few moments, they’re both panting and groaning. The bed is moving with them. Erik is biting down on Charles’ shoulder, kissing his throat and clutching at his back so hard his fingers hurt. He’s rocking his own hips to meet Charles’ thrusts. It’s good. Really, spectacularly good, and Erik is unabashedly vocal about it. Charles’ lips brush over Erik's ear. “Please,” he pants, “don’t make me take it out again.”

Erik bursts out laughing. Charles is laughing too; Erik feels it more than he hears it. He can hardly remember what the problem was. It feels warm and fun and safe to be underneath Charles, bracketed by his arms. Erik is so glad he didn’t send Charles away.

Charles sticks around for the better part of the weekend. They spend most of it in bed, but Erik finds he likes his company out of it, as well. It’s not as uncomfortable as he thought it might be to have someone else in his space. On the contrary, it’s rather nice.

On Saturday afternoon, Charles suggests chess.

They set up a game in the living room, Erik in his underwear, Charles in nothing but a sheet. Erik can’t help but remember past chess games. He’d always supposed that chess is something he’s just better at than humans, and that he'd have to curb his abilities every time. With Charles, it’s nothing like it was with his owner, but there's a lingering dread that Erik can't shake. 

Erik goes easy. Charles wins handily. “Am I that distracting?” Charles teases.

“That was just the warm-up,” Erik shoots back. The trepidation is gone and in its place, the thrill of a challenge tingles. If things must sour when Erik doesn’t temper his ability, better to get it over with.

Erik wins the next round. Charles only responds with gentle ribbing about how much better Erik’s gotten in just one game. Erik is relieved, but more than that, he's intrigued. Winning this round wasn’t nearly as easy as he expected it to be. That Charles can be such a challenge to a replicant speaks to his skill and intellect. A sort of affectionate fascination has been playing in Erik’s mind all weekend. He's been trying to make sense of it, but that settles it: he likes Charles.

Erik thinks about Charles a lot after that weekend. He’s delighted when Charles stops in to his office on a rainy weekday. Charles is generous, affectionate, and indulgent. He's witty, whip-smart, and a pleasure to be around. Erik wants to see Charles again, and again, and again, and the feeling is mutual. It’s a complete novelty. 

Charles sometimes comes to him on bad days. He doesn't say they're bad days, let alone tell Erik why they're bad days. But Erik knows, because those are the days Charles is quiet and withdrawn. He'll hold Erik like he's a tether to something Charles can't lose. Erik doesn't mind those days. He doesn't enjoy Charles' distress at all, but he loves to feel Charles relax and calm in his arms, as he always does. 

There’s a darkness in the back of his mind that creeps to the forefront when Charles isn’t there to stave it off. He wonders whether Charles would turn on him if he knew what he really was. He wonders whether the tendencies Charles calls “German” would repulse him if Charles knew the truth. He doesn’t see how they couldn’t, if Charles makes a living killing replicants like him. He can’t get it out of his head.

It comes out while he’s starting dinner for them one night. Erik is chopping vegetables while Charles sips wine and talks. Erik doesn’t even hear what he’s saying.

“What would you have done if I’d failed the test?” he cuts in.

Charles falters, thrown by the question. “What?”

“What would you have done if I’d failed the test you gave me when you first came to my office?” He puts down the knife and turns, leaning against the countertop and crossing his arms over his chest. “You’d have killed me, wouldn’t you?”

Charles looks askance at him. “You didn’t fail the test.”

“But if I had? What if you’d made a mistake?”

“I was incredibly thorough, Erik. I don’t risk mistakes.”

“How do you know?”

“I know.” He’s starting to get short. He hates talking about work.

“If I’d failed the test would I have gotten due process?”

“This is stupid, Erik. You wouldn’t have failed the test, don’t you get it?”

“No, I don’t.” He’s starting to tremble. “What if you gave the test to an unusually callous human? Or a sociopath? Would you kill them?”

“The test is designed to control for them.”

“Why? If the point of the test is to test humanity by empathy why not treat human sociopaths like replicants?”

“Being a replicant is not a crime,” Charles explains. He sounds like he’s speaking to a child. “Murder is a crime.”

“But you can’t summarily execute a human suspected of murder. Even if that human is a sociopath.”

“Replicants are properties, not persons under law. Their owners have the legal right to deal with them as they see fit, as do law enforcement officers.” Charles’ voice is perfectly even and matter-of-fact. It's even worse that way. Erik still remembers the glint of the pistol meant to retire him like it happened earlier that day. He turns away, arms still crossed tight over his chest. He would have been murdered with impunity if he hadn’t acted first. Yet acting first marked him for death. It was so utterly unfair to him. And worse, if Charles knew, he’d either alert German authorities or kill him on the spot.

“What if they were a replicant that was fully indistinguishable from humans? If they were to pass the test?”

Charles huffs, exasperated. “If they did it would only be because of some programmer coding them to do.”

“Isn’t DNA just randomly-generated organic code?” It’s hard to keep his voice steady. “What’s the difference?” He’s sure that Charles would turn on him if he knew and yet it’s on the tip of his tongue, ready to spill. The thought of Charles’ affection being conditional is unbearable and he needs to know. He needs resolution either way.

He hears Charles’ chair drag across the floor. He expects Charles to leave. Instead he comes up behind Erik and wraps his arms around his waist. He kisses his shoulder blades, nuzzling the back of his neck. “You know how I knew you weren’t a replicant? Your empathy scores were off the charts. It’s exceptional among humans, even. Listen to you.” He rests his forehead against Erik’s shoulder. “When I finish my outstanding assignments, I’m resigning. No more of this.”

“On my account?”

“No, but you’re reminding me that this is the right decision.” He keeps kissing Erik’s shoulders. “It’s hard to explain and I know it’s hard to understand.”

Erik rubs at his face. He just wants to lie down. Charles picks up on it, because he presses another kiss to Erik’s shoulder. “Why don’t we save the cooking for tomorrow and order something instead?”

“Sounds good.” Erik doesn’t have much of an appetite left anyway, but he’s too wrung out to say so.

Charles kisses Erik’s ear. “I would never hurt you,” he says. “I’d never let anyone hurt you.” He grabs Erik’s shoulders and turns him around to face him. “Let’s just pretend we met in that bar, okay? Forget I ever gave you the test. You were not the droid I was looking for.” Charles smiles like he’s made a joke but is too tired to laugh. Erik quirks an eyebrow. “Oh. It’s, um, from a movie.”

“I see.” Charles’ smile, already faint, fades.

“Please trust me.” He squeezes Erik’s shoulders once. “I know it’s hard to explain, but I promise you weren’t in any danger. You were never in any danger.”

“What if they’d sent someone less scrupulous? I’d be dead and you’d never have met me.”

Charles looks stricken at that. “They didn’t,” he said. “You’re not. And everyone on the force is trained to the same standard, besides...” He looks around like he’s hoping to spot something to prompt a change in conversation. When there’s nothing he turns his face back towards Erik, but won’t meet his eye. He looks so weary and miserable. Erik takes pity on him, resting his hands on Charles’ waist and pulling him close. He rests his lips on Charles’ forehead.

Erik doesn’t want to let things go so easily. He still wants to know the truth of whether Charles would still be like this if he knew that Erik was a replicant. But he can't bring himself to ask. He’s not satisfied that the answer would be yes, and he dreads it.

Still, Charles has done something to him. It feels like he’s rewired Erik’s mind to always come out in Charles’ favor. Erik can’t put a name to it, but it feels like his resistance dissolves to nothing when Charles’ lips are on his, and then there’s no room in his mind for any doubt. Then nothing else matters but Charles, and Charles’ kisses, and Charles’ affection.

Later, they’re in bed, and Charles lays himself out, bare and yielding to whatever Erik wants of him. Usually Charles is the one who leads, but tonight he’s looking at Erik like a lost child might. Erik wants so much of him, _from_ him, and he can’t resist anything about Charles. He loves to kiss his skin and watch the pale flesh flush bright red. He loves to wrest control away until Charles is begging and panting his name. Erik’s high on the rush of power and warm with the knowledge of how much Charles trusts him to let him do this. How much Charles loves him to want this from him. When Erik takes Charles, the two of them slot together like they were made to. Charles’ thighs cling to his hips and Charles’ hands clutch at his back. They kiss until it’s hard to breathe.

Afterwards, Charles is curled up under Erik’s arm, his cheek on Erik’s chest and a hand on his hip. “I’d kill for you,” Charles says. He’s loud enough to be heard in the dead silence of night, but still very soft.

“That doesn’t take much for you.” Charles doesn’t answer. Erik didn’t mean for it to hurt, it was only an observation, but he realizes his mistake within seconds. Charles’ face is turned away from him, but he can feel the tremor as Charles tries to keep his composure. “Sorry. I don’t mean anything by that, I just meant…”

“No, you’re right.” Charles’ voice is thick and distorted. Erik tightens his arm around Charles’ waist and settles a hand in Charles’ hair.

“I know what you meant.” He hates that he’s said something to upset Charles. “I’d do the same, you know.”

“That means more coming from you,” Charles says. He’s quiet for a few more seconds. “Before I met you I used to think I couldn’t feel this way for someone ever again. I’m not who I used to be. I thought everything that made me human was gone and then I met you but I’m still not sure how much is left.”

“You’re human no matter what.”

“What’s that quote?” Charles continues, unheeding. “About he who fights monsters.” Erik pulls Charles closer and kisses the part of his hair.

“You’re not a monster. You’re mine.” Charles finally looks up at him. His eyes are red and swollen. “I didn’t mean anything by what I said, you know. I feel the same. I’d do the same,” Erik says again.

“You’re everything to me. I’d never hurt you.”

“I know.” He kisses Charles’ forehead. “I know. I’ve never been so sure of anything.”

Charles smiles up at him. Though his eyes are still glassy, his smile is genuine. Erik runs his hand down Charles’ face, wiping away tear-tracks with his thumb.

Erik means it. His earlier doubts lie dormant. The truth seems such a faraway, inconsequential thing under cover of night. Against the strength of Charles’ devotion, it amounts to nothing.


	9. now

When they get inside Erik's apartment, Charles helps himself to Erik’s liquor stash. He flops onto Erik's couch and considers the space around him. Nothing's changed, but it's not the same. Nothing's the same. He doesn’t know what to think, or what to feel, but he supposes some scotch might tease it out. 

“Why did we leave so quickly?” 

“It doesn’t matter.”

Erik's brow furrows. “Who was that you were with?” 

_Someone who would ask too many questions._ “A colleague.” If the significance registers with Erik, he doesn’t show it. 

“You haven’t been yourself the past few days,” Erik says. He’s got a penetrating stare fixed on Charles. Charles hates it. He doesn’t know how to hide from Erik, even knowing what he knows now. He’s never had to before, never wanted to. “Is everything all right?” 

“I’m fine.” Except that David would be done with already, if Charles knew the truth of what Erik was. If he didn’t look at David’s face and see the face of someone he knew and cared for, he’d have finished the job. David wouldn’t have hurt anyone else. But he has, because Erik made Charles soft when he should have been cold, even though Erik was just like David. 

Erik holds his gaze a few more moments, then turns away. He’s not satisfied, but he won’t press. 

Erik takes the books out of his bag, slotting them in on his bookshelves in alphabetical order. Charles watches from the couch and wonders what Erik gets out of reading. He wonders whether the books are just there to keep up appearances and collect dust. 

He’s not sure how he could have been so naive. It’s all so very clear in retrospect, and Charles has ignored every hint. That Erik could have deliberately bested him is devastating. He can’t remember the last time he was open and vulnerable with anyone. With Erik he thought he could be, because he was so sure Erik felt the same. Now there’s no denying that Erik’s pulled the wool over his eyes from the start. Charles can’t be sure Erik was ever honest with him at all. He’s reeling from it. 

“Do you know?” Charles asks when he can’t keep it in any longer. 

Erik looks over at him. He’s taken aback by the ice in Charles’ voice. “Know what?” 

“What you are.” Erik’s long fingers freeze on the spine of the leather-bound volume in his hands. 

“And what is that?” His voice is even as he resumes shelving. 

Charles stares hard at him. “A replicant.” 

Erik stops shelving. He stands, facing the bookshelf, for a long time. Then he crosses his arms tight over his chest and turns. “Yes.” 

Charles sucks in a breath. “Were you ever going to tell me?” 

“Does it matter?”

“Yes,” Charles snaps. Erik's stricken look only stokes Charles’ anger. “Yes, it matters that you’re a bloody replicant and you fucking lied to me about it from the start.” 

Erik recoils like Charles hit him. Charles expects him to argue, maybe to point out that Charles lied about his identity first. Charles feels his anger swelling in dark anticipation of what’s to come. He’s ready to snap back at anything. “Well, you’re a blade runner,” is all he says. “Are you going to _apprehend_ me? Or _retire_ me?” The words drip with such venom. 

“Why, did you do something to deserve it?” Erik’s starting to shake his head. He's about to speak, but Charles won't let him. “And so what if I did? They could just make another one of you.” If the dawning horror on his face is anything to go by, Erik wasn’t expecting anything but an unqualified no. “There are dozens of you already.” Erik’s eyes are wide. He’s frightened of the things Charles is saying. And Charles’ righteous anger is burning so hot that it blots out all his earlier doubt. 

Erik is looking at the door, probably calculating whether he should run. Charles starts planning his maneuvers. He snaps back to the present with a twinge of disgust. That’s habit now, and not one he particularly likes. Erik may be a replicant, but he isn’t a mark. 

Erik sits on the edge of his couch, his eyes fixed on the floor. “If you’re going to do something, do it fast.” 

Charles gets up and crosses the room. Erik’s composure visibly slips, his face contorting in despair. After a moment he manages to collect himself. He doesn’t look up when Charles is standing over him. He’s just waiting for Charles to strike. The thought makes Charles feel ill. His ire has burned out, leaving him hollowed, empty. 

He perches on the arm of the loveseat and wraps his arms around Erik, pulling him close. Erik leans into his chest, clutching at his shoulders. “How old are you, Erik?”

“Three years.” Charles doesn’t say anything, just nuzzles Erik’s hair. “I love you,” Erik whispers. His smell is so familiar and so dear. 

“You don’t even know what that means.” Charles feels Erik go limp in his arms. Erik’s not crying, but it’s obvious he’s miserable. 

Charles doesn't think he's wrong, per se, but this doesn’t feel right, either. 

It doesn’t matter. There’s nothing else to do, nothing left to say, nowhere to go from here. 

He lays his hands over Erik’s where they’re clutching at his shoulders. Erik’s breath hitches. His fingers twitch against Charles’. He's looking for the spaces where their fingers might slot together, like he can hold on that way. Instead, Charles grasps Erik’s hands and eases them off of him. He pushes Erik away and stands. “Goodbye, Erik.” 

When he closes the door behind him, he hesitates, his fingers lingering on the knob. Then he turns and makes for the elevator. 

 

* * *

 

Logan has a habit of coming in to Charles’ office without knocking. Usually Charles doesn’t care, but this time he bristles. He’s about to tell Logan to get the fuck out, but falls silent when he sees the look on Logan’s face. 

“How do you know Lehnsherr?” 

“I don’t, really,” Charles lies. “He came up as a suspect when David first fell into our laps but I was able to rule him out. Why do you ask?” 

Logan hands him a dossier. “He’s rogue. In the database as Max Eisenhardt, he’s managed to fly under the radar under his fake name for a while. Killed a man in Germany, came to New York, changed his name. There were witnesses, said it was self-defense.” 

But replicants have no right to self-defense, not in any country or off-world colony, so Erik is a mark after all. 

Logan turns to go. Charles doubles over, pulling at his hair with both hands and biting his lip so hard he tastes blood. 

He straightens and takes a few deep breaths to calm himself. “Why does he pass?” he asks. Logan turns back and leans against the doorframe. 

“What do you mean?” 

“I didn’t even need to test David to know. But Erik took the Voight-Kampff test and passed.”

Logan nods towards the dossier. “Lehnsherr’s next gen.” 

He considers asking whether Erik’s generation has the same four-year lifespan as the other replicants. He thinks better of it. 

“If they pass the Voight-Kampff test, is it because they’re good at gaming the system? Or because they’re effectively human?” 

Logan scrubs at his face. “Does it matter? We just do the job and collect the paycheck, kid.” 

“Fine. I got this one, then.” He hopes his affected nonchalance is convincing. 

Logan snorts. “Like hell you do.” 

He can’t think of anything to say that won’t sound too desperate. Logan’s not an idiot, he knows that Charles is compromised on this one and won’t go through with it. He’s also not likely to be swayed by an emotional appeal. 

But before he can think on it any longer, a report comes in. David was spotted at the Tyrell building. He left two bodies behind.


	10. tears in rain

The city passes by in a blur on the way from the station. Charles can't let David get away again. Logan is trailing him for backup, but Charles can't afford to slow down and wait for him to catch up. 

The Tyrell building is empty. Evacuated. A stricken-looking woman on the curb points him across the street.

Charles finds David in the fourth story of an abandoned building. The exposed brick walls are lined with nests of blankets and things left behind by squatters. The ceiling is high and the windows are broken. Spacious and drafty and damp, it feels no different from being outside, only darker and quieter. David is silhouetted against a window frame, looking down at the street. With the Tyrell headquarters looming unlit across the avenue, and the faint light rising from the street below, the dusty remnants of windowpane look like sharp clouds in a starless sky. 

David's hands are still wet with the blood of Tyrell himself. So is the pistol he’s holding, which Charles recognizes as his own. In the dark, opposite David, Charles' sense of urgency has died. Everything is quiet and still and he can't quite remember what the rush was. 

“I was expecting you,” David says. He turns and holds out the gun by the barrel. “Fortunately for you, my expiration is imminent. I understand the prospect of killing me was distressing to you.”

Charles doesn’t doubt he knows, but he doubts David really understands. He approaches and takes the proffered weapon. 

“It’s a pity,” David says as he takes a seat on the windowsill, “that I was unsuccessful. Many extant replicants might have been saved. Did you know he was like me?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“But you must have. Didn't you? You must have known and simply not wanted to believe it. It's been rather fascinating to observe." 

Charles actually laughs at that. “I knew you were stalking me but I didn’t think you were _observing_ me. I must be the most boring case study.”

“Hardly.”

“You could have done something at any time. Why didn’t you?”

“Done something?”

“To me. You could have done something to me. To preempt your... retirement.”

“You were no threat to me. I saw no reason to cause him grief.” Charles purses his lips and looks down at the floor. He nods slowly as he tries to figure out why he's not satisfied by the answer. 

“Did you envy him?” Charles asks. 

“Why should I?”

“That he can have things like that, and you can’t?”

“Things like what? You?”

“Relationships. Love, if you will.”

“I have no such desires, no such affections. Why should I envy him?”

“It’s what makes us human." 

“That's not true. But even if it were, why should human be the standard for which a replicant should strive? I've outsmarted you. I've bested you. I see no reason then why I should wish to be like you.”

That stings a little. Charles nods and shrugs and looks away.

“How much time does your replicant companion have?” David asks. 

Charles leans against the window frame. “A year. Assuming the incept date on record is correct, at least.” There’s no reason to doubt that it is. What’s on file squares with what Erik told him, but the thought of _one year left_... He hopes like hell it’s wrong.

“A year,” David remarks. “I could do so many things in a year.”

“He might not even have that,” Charles says. For the life of him he doesn’t know why he’s tipping his hand to _David_ , of anyone, but he doesn’t know who else he can say it to. “Anything can happen in a year.”

“Is he on your list of replicants to kill?”

“Not my list, no.”

“But someone’s.” Charles nods, just barely. “So he’s more like me than you supposed, isn’t he.”

“His crime was self-defense,” Charles says. “Legally he has no right because he’s a replicant, but it was self-defense.”

“And mine? I take no particular pleasure in killing. I merely did what needed to be done to get in front of those who could extend replicant life. Or see it done.” He looks out over his shoulder at the night sky. “There are many of us. So many. Had I been successful...” He closes his eyes. His voice has taken on a strange timbre, its inorganic origin plain. Neon lights are reflecting on his pale skin from below, a breeze ruffling his hair. He opens his eyes again. His gaze is upwards and faraway, towards the stars. “I’ve seen things… you…”

Before David can finish his thought, his face crumples. He pitches forward, tumbling off of the windowsill. Charles catches him in his arms.

For all that he’s spent months telling himself that Erik and David are nothing alike, Charles still can’t look at David without thinking of Erik. The pain on David’s face runs through Charles like it’s his own. He wildly thinks he needs to make it better, make it end, until he comes back to himself and remembers where he is and who he’s with. 

Charles eases David to the ground and sits next to him, resting a hand on his shoulder. David looks up at him. Charles tightens his grip. He wants to give comfort, to make it okay somehow, but he's at a loss. He's wanted for so long to have David gone. In these last moments, inexplicably, it's not what he wants at all. 

David spasms and slumps back, each paroxysm sucking more strength from him. It would be a mercy to just retire him at this point. Charles has already decided, selfishly, that he won’t if he doesn’t have to. But when David writhes in agony, he second-guesses himself.

David looks like he’s about to speak and struggling. Charles finds himself leaning in close, like David is going to say something he can’t afford to miss. But all he does is groan, a piteous sound that’s painful to hear.

Charles takes a deep breath. He takes his hand off David’s shoulder to draw his gun and cock it. He keeps the gun at his side, because it seems more dignified that way. “Anything you’d like to say?”

David nods once. It’s weak, but it’s a show of gratitude. “Safe journey, Mr. Xavier.”

Charles aims at David’s forehead and fires. He hears the fluttering of startled birds, making for the long-broken windows from the rafters. Once they’re gone, it’s silent.

Charles runs a hand through David’s hair and closes his eyes with the other. Blood gets on Charles’ fingers, streaking David’s eyes and the bridge of his nose. It smells metallic, like proper blood. Charles is fighting the urge to cry as he looks down at David’s face and imagines Erik in his place. 

Charles sits with David, stroking his hair. He can't make sense of why David spent his last moments as he did. The rational thing to do, the _replicant_ thing to do, would have been to have Charles end it with a clean bullet before the painful onset of shutdown. There were ways to force Charles' hand. Attacking first, or outright asking for a mercy kill, even. Maybe David was biding his time in the hope of some miracle reprieve. But androids are known to be immune to things like denial and self-deception. Of course, the same is true of empathy. If not for the vain hope that death wouldn’t come, why should David spare Charles the job he’d been dreading? If it meant prolonging the pain of his own inevitable shutdown, why? And why not have killed Charles weeks earlier; what could Erik's grief have possibly meant to David? And was his concern for other replicants' lives a ploy to manipulate Charles, or true altruism - another thing replicants are known to lack? 

Everything Charles always thought he’d known about replicants is in question. He can't see a way out of that conclusion. Maybe it was foolish to think that artificial consciousness could possibly remain within the bounds of human understanding. Maybe it was naive to think it wouldn’t develop and change and break through boundaries, just as natural life has always done. And maybe, on some level, Charles has always known that. 

It’s a heavy thought. It's not one he cares to process any further. He just wants to go home to his bed and a drink and to Erik, if Erik will still have him.

But Charles will have to warn him that they know. Erik has to leave. He could be gone already, for all Charles knows. If he sees Erik again at all, it'll be only once. It's no less than he deserves, but it's devastating all the same. 

Logan shows up with the cleanup crew some time later. Charles is still sitting up next to David’s remains when Logan finds him.

“Congratulations, kid. Tough job, well done.” 

Charles isn’t about to ask why Logan took so long. He knows as soon as he sees him that he'd gone to deal with Erik. It registers with a detached sort of acceptance. He doesn’t really blame Logan for going about his job that way, but he can’t muster up the will to say anything to him. 

Logan gestures for Charles to follow him downstairs, and he does, because there's nothing else to do. If he were capable of feeling anything, Logan's nonchalance would infuriate him. The fury and grief will hit later, maybe. For now, he's numb. 

“Medic's downstairs. You look fine but let him give you a once-over, make sure you’re in one piece. Give you something for stress, if you need it.” Logan pulls out a cigarette and lights up as they step out into the raw evening air. “So, were you still going to resign once this last job was done?” Charles manages a single feeble nod. “Then I guess this is goodbye. I’d shake your hand, but, well. Good working with you, kid. Take care.”

With his cigarette smoldering between his fingers, Logan starts down the sidewalk. Charles slumps against the wall. He has more questions than he can bear tonight. Why did Logan only move on this particular job when he found that Charles was involved? Did he think he was doing Charles a favor? Keeping him out of a mess he should never have gotten into in the first place? Getting the inevitable over with sooner rather than later? 

Charles watches as Logan's stride falters and he takes a drag of his cigarette. He tilts his face to the misting sky and exhales, smoke billowing up in a wispy column. Charles thinks about calling after him to ask, but before he does, Logan turns on his heel. 

Charles isn't sure what he expected, but the lopsided grin on Logan’s face wasn’t it.

“It’s too bad he won’t live." Logan spreads his arms wide, palms upturned. “But then again, who does?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy belated birthday, Roy Batty (January 8, 2016).


	11. now

Charles doesn’t know what the fuck is going on, what Logan meant, or what he’ll find at Erik’s place.

By the time he’s reached Erik’s building, dread and panic threaten to overwhelm him. They sit so thick in his stomach they feel like an anchor, pulling him down. But he can’t give in. He has to get to Erik.

He can’t bear the sight of himself in the mirrored elevator doors. He looks pale and haggard, like he’s aged fifteen years in six hours. He squeezes his eyes shut until the elevator shudders to a stop and he hears the drag of the opening doors. Every step he takes towards Erik’s door is less steady than the last.

There’s a tiny unicorn made of silver gum wrapper perched on the doorknob of Erik’s apartment. Charles picks it up and stares at it, trying to understand. Logan was here.

_It’s too bad he won’t live._

He drops the paper unicorn to the ground and takes a deep, tremulous breath. He draws his gun, just in case. It feels alien to his hands now. Steeling himself, he opens the already unlocked door. He looks left, then right. The room is clear. Empty, actually. Or so he thinks until he notices Erik. He’s laid out on the couch, a blanket drawn up to his shoulders.

“Erik.” His voice is thin and shaky. No movement. No reply. He tries again, louder this time. “Erik.” It’s still a shredded, pathetic sound, but loud enough to be heard. Erik doesn’t stir.

All the strength goes out from Charles. He staggers over and falls to his knees beside the couch. He squeezes his eyes shut and rests his cheek on Erik's chest. Underneath his ear, Erik's heart is beating, steady as ever. 

He draws back. Erik is blinking up at him, yawning and rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“I didn’t think you’d come back.” It’s like he’s remarking on the weather. Charles doesn’t know a tear is running down his face until Erik reaches up to brush it away.

“Well, I have.” Charles buries his hands in Erik's hair. He kisses his forehead, then rests his own on Erik’s, brushing their noses together. 

“Did you come to kill me?”

Charles recoils, stunned. His face crumples. “I could never.”

“Then why are you here?”

More than anything, the sincerity of the question stings.

“You need to go,” he says. “I came to warn you. They know about you. Logan was here, Erik, he was in this building.”

“Who’s Logan?”

“My colleague.” Erik’s eyes widen. “No, no, it’s all right. He let me know he was here. He’s letting you go. But you’re on file. You can’t stay here.”

With gentle fingertips, Erik traces soft lines over Charles’ face. “Do I spend the rest of my life running?”

“You can find somewhere to settle down. Somewhere they won’t find you. Where they won’t even think to look.”

Erik’s eyes drift closed. “What will I do with myself?”

“You’ll live.”

“What for?”

“Just... to _live_.”

“For what? How long do I even have? What was it at the start, four years?”

“We don’t know how long you have. You’re a different model from the rest.”

Erik’s lips quirk at that. “What are the odds that after however many generations of four-year lifespans, my generation should be the first to have indefinite life?”

Charles rakes a hand through his hair. “That’s not -- we don’t know -- you could…” His voice breaks. 

“Shh, shh.” Erik wraps his arms around Charles and pulls him to his chest, holding him fast as he trembles. Charles closes his eyes and ignores the hardwood floor under his knees. Erik’s arms feel like home. He wants to stay there and never leave. But he can’t. _Erik_ can’t.

“Please,” he whispers. “I’m sorry it came to this. I’m so sorry. I understand why you didn’t tell me. I wouldn’t have told me, either. And I’m sorry I proved you right not to tell me, I am. I’m sorry for all this, you don’t deserve any of this, but you don’t have to stay here and wait to die. I couldn’t bear it. You owe me nothing, but I’m begging you.”

For a while, the only sound in the room is Charles’ ragged breath.

“I don’t understand you,” Erik says at length.

“I don’t understand myself.”

It’s not exactly true. Charles understands perfectly well the raw, visceral sense of betrayal and humiliation he'd felt. He just doesn’t know how to explain it to Erik. So he says nothing, because Charles can’t bear to lower Erik’s opinion of him any more than he already has. 

Erik breaks the silence first. “Will you come with me?”

Charles raises his head. “You want me to?” Erik doesn’t answer right away. Charles’ heart is pounding. “After everything?”

“Yes, after everything. If you want to.” 

Charles releases a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. “I’ll go with you anywhere.” He leans in for a kiss. When he draws back, Erik is gazing up at him, looking as relieved as Charles feels.

“I didn’t think you’d want to see me again.” 

 _And I didn’t think I_ would _see you again, and it was the worst I've ever felt, and I have so much to say, and so many things to tell you, but we have so little time._

“I did,” he says instead. “I’ll help you pack some things.”  
  
With what they can carry slung over their shoulders, they board the elevator, hand in hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the delay in getting this posted - between writer's block and life in general, this fic got shelved for a while. But I'm back, we're back, replicant!Erik and blade runner!Charles are back, and we're almost done, so thanks for sticking with it and I hope you enjoy!


	12. Ewig, ewig

It wasn’t that the prospect of leaving frightened Erik. It was more that he didn’t know what to expect. He still doesn’t. It hasn’t even been a week, but New York City feels a lifetime away from them. He’d had a plan last time. This time, he has nothing. Only Charles.

They’re in some roadside diner. Their few things await them in a motel room. They can’t see anybody on this side of the wraparound dining area. For all they know, they’re the only patrons in the place. Given the hour, that wouldn’t be a surprise. There’s faint laughter from the kitchen, where the waitress and the night-shift cooks are keeping each other awake. There’s distant music from a jukebox they can’t see.

Charles clutches a nondescript coffee mug, but doesn’t drink from it, just gazes out the window. Erik sips some water and eyes Charles over the rim of the glass. They’re both tired, but it shows more on Charles’ face.

“I don’t think I’ve been to a real diner before,” Erik says. Charles’ eyes shift back into focus, turning to Erik.

“No?”

“No.”

“Makes sense, I guess. Hedge fund hot shots don’t eat with the hoi polloi, do they.”

“No, we do. Only if our boyfriends ask us to, though.”

“And I’m a cheap date, so here we are.” Charles lifts the mug to his lips, holding Erik’s gaze. He’s still exhausted-looking, but smiling, at least.

“It’s a cliche, isn’t it? The diner on the lonely stretch of road?”

“Mm. Very Nighthawks.”

“Edward Hopper, right?”

Charles’ smile broadens. “I was thinking of Tom Waits, but it’s from Edward Hopper, yeah.” His tongue darts out to catch a drop of coffee from his lip. Erik watches with appreciation.

After all this time, Erik is still surprised by how Charles makes him feel. He’d always worried that the truth of what he is would break them. Now, nothing between them is hidden. Everything should be fine. But the fear that something would come in and take Charles away from him is still there. He's still afraid that one day he’ll wake up and find that he’d been dreaming all along.

“What’s wrong?” Charles asks, suddenly alert. Erik’s pensiveness must show on his face.

“Nothing’s wrong. Just thinking.”

Charles worries too much about Erik. In the week since they left, Charles has had death on his mind. He tries to hide it, but he isn’t good at hiding it, which puts it on Erik’s mind too.

It’s not that the idea of death doesn’t faze Erik. It’s just that it isn’t so hard for Erik to keep it close to his chest. He’s privately exhausted all his questions about his prospects. He’s come up short of answers every time. His model featured many notable firsts, as replicants go. But he never found reason to believe the first human-comparable lifespan was among them. So it is. He can bear his own fate, but not reflected in Charles’ eyes. 

Erik knows it’s ridiculous to fret over Charles. He’s so strong and capable, as humans go. Still, Charles hasn’t been quite the same since they left. Everything that happened shook Charles horribly. If the other replicant's death was the cause of so much distress, then if it were to happen again, with Erik... 

Erik is the one who can handle unpleasant truths. Replicants may have outgrown their programming in a few short years, but their minds retain the logical order of careful design. Humans are different. They're mercurial and flighty, always at the mercy of emotions. There's charm in it, which Erik appreciates, but he recognizes the attendant weaknesses. And Charles, while exceptional, is only human.

“What’s the story behind the name you gave at reception?” he asks, in the hope of some distraction.

“No story. I just thought Frank Williams was a generic enough name without being obviously fake.”

“How many fake names can we come up with, do you think?” Erik muses. “Do we stick with Frank Williams or do we pick a new fake name each time?”

“Good question. Maybe you should get to pick the next one.”

“I’m not creative. I’d just go with, I don’t know, the name of whoever sings this song.” Erik nods in the general direction of the faint music.

Charles chuckles. “All right, I’ll pick the names, then.” He sips his coffee and sets his mug down. “Pretty sure this is Herb Alpert. Not actually a fake name but it sounds like one.” He picks a fry up from his barely-touched plate. “But between the two of us, you’re the expert at flying under the radar with a fake name.”

“It’s not really fake. I didn’t make it up, I mean. I took it from someone.”

“Oh?” Charles arches his brow. “Someone you knew?”

“Nah. I mean, yes, I met him once. He was a lawyer in Munich. It was just the first name that came to mind when I had to pick one.”

Charles smiles at him. His face looks soft in the low golden light. “I can’t imagine calling you anything else.”

“Glad it was an unremarkable lawyer whose name came to mind and not Herb Alpert.”

Charles laughs. The song changes. Erik doesn’t recognize it, but Charles seems to. His face takes on a sort of faraway look, even as he gazes straight at Erik’s face. He looks out the window. Erik wishes he could know what Charles is thinking.

When they get back to the motel, Charles climbs facedown into bed without undressing and is asleep within minutes. Erik tugs off Charles’ clothes as gently as he can manage. He folds them and stacks them on the motel chair, then stretches out on his side alongside Charles. He closes his eyes. So much uncertainty lies ahead of them, but nothing calms him like the ebb and flow of Charles' breath. 

If Erik only has a year left to his life, he thinks, this is the better way to spend it. With Charles. Home had never meant much to him; his career, a play at human normalcy, all for appearances' sake. For the first time, his life feels like his own. But with Charles as his only constant, he has a fresh awareness of mortality. It's not an abstract eventuality anymore. It's an omnipresent certainty. Charles is the one thing he can't bear to lose but someday, in one way or another, he will. Their ephemerality is a bitter truth, but a truth nonetheless. Going with Charles meant embracing that. 

On some level, Charles seems to think that if he loves Erik hard enough, they'll cheat death. Erik understands why he has to keep believing that. Sometimes he can’t believe Charles is human. But sometimes he is so acutely aware of Charles’ humanity it hurts. Tonight is one of those nights. Charles is so precious and rare that it’s frightening. Humbling, even, that he could be the product of genetic chance. 

He kisses Charles’ shoulder and rests a hand on the small of his back. He did the right thing by leaving with Charles, he thinks as he drifts off to sleep. It won't get easier. But it was the right thing.  
  


* * *

   
After the first month or so, when danger felt behind them, being on the run began to feel more like a road trip. Six months in, Charles is as carefree as he had ever allowed himself to be. Which, of course, is all relative. He's haunted by past and future alike. He keeps the dark thoughts at bay most of the time, but there are some days when he can’t pretend things are all right.

It’s early in the morning as they make their way along the coast in a car they paid for in cash. Erik is reclining in the passenger seat, gazing out at the water. They’re listening to Mahler. Erik’s pick. It’s grown on Charles a lot. But this morning, after yet another restless night, it’s doing nothing to calm him.

The sleepless nights don’t get easier. He copes well enough most days. But when it’s the dead of night, it's different. That's when he watches Erik’s sleeping face, feeling like he'll burst with how much he loves him. Not knowing what's coming is unbearable. They can outrun Charles' former colleagues, but they can't outrun that. 

He wonders whether David meant it when he said he was sorry that his quest for more life couldn’t benefit Erik. He wishes David had been successful, too, and not just for Erik’s sake. For David’s. For all the rest. He doesn’t talk about David much with Erik, but he thinks about him a lot.

Trying to focus on the road, he adjusts his sunglasses against the low sun’s glare.

Erik reaches over and strokes the back of Charles’ hand. Charles takes his hand off of the steering wheel and offers up his palm. Erik takes Charles' hand in his, intertwines their fingers, lifts Charles’ knuckles to his lips for a kiss. “It’s beautiful,” he comments. Charles glances over to the early morning sky. It's still streaked with remnants of pink and orange, casting a pale reflection on the water.

“It is.”

“One of the better human inventions. After myself, of course.”

Charles hadn’t even realized Erik was talking about the music. He laughs. Getting him to do that at unlikely moments is a particular talent of Erik’s. “I’ll take your word for it. You’re the one with the rational robot mind.”

“Replicant, not robot,” he corrects, biting down on Charles’ thumb to punctuate the point. “Silly human.”

“Hey, don't knock humans. You should worship us. We’re your creators.” Erik scoffs. “What? Maybe with enough prayers, someone will upload your consciousness to some server. That way it can live forever.”

It hasn’t occurred to him before. It comes to him in the moment, and then it’s brilliant and clear, a revelation, so very plausible, so very _doable_. It's how replicant consciousness got its start, after all: programmed, then loaded into bodies, then compounded upon by lived experience - and what was the effect of lived experience, except more information? And why can't that information be extracted? If it can be uploaded, it can be downloaded. Four years of a replicant body doesn’t have to mean anything if a replicant consciousness can be transferred. Erik would outlive him. Erik might even be immortal. 

Erik doesn’t answer for a moment. “With organic tissue, it’s more complicated than that." His voice is gentle. "People have been trying to solve the lifespan problem for years. If it's possible, they would have figured out how to do it already.” Smiling wanly, Erik clutches their entwined hands to his chest and covers them with his other. He rubs the pad of his thumb over Charles’ knuckles.

Charles bites down on the inside of his cheek. He’s grateful that his sunglasses hide the wetness springing up in his eyes.

He wants so badly for time not to run out on them.

“I see no reason to worship humans,” Erik continues. “Or anything else. And I’m glad of that. It is an amazing thing, the -- well. All I mean to say is I’m glad to be here. With you,” Erik says. “Statistically speaking, it’s improbable enough that we exist, you and I. Even more improbable that we’ve found each other. And I’m glad, is all.” He squeezes Charles’ hand in both of his and settles their hands in his lap.

“I love you,” Charles says. “So very much.” His voice is only a little thick with his tears. It’s not beyond Erik’s perception.

Erik squeezes Charles’ hand again and looks out over the water. The rosy remnants of sunrise are all but gone from the sky now. “I read in a book once that your eyes are blue for the same reason the sky is blue.” He raises Charles’ hand to his lips again and kisses the inside of his wrist. “Explains a lot, doesn’t it?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, we have androids but not self-driving cars. Bear with me here. 
> 
> I was batting around the idea of writing a continuation to this story but decided to leave it as a standalone. Since this ending turned out bleaker than I'd initially intended, I'll just share that that continuation would have involved some more discussion of replicant lifespans, so even though this story doesn't go into it too much, in this 'verse it's possible for some replicants to live more than four years. Whether or not Erik does, I'll leave up to you. 
> 
> Title of this chapter is from the Mahler they listen to in the car, [Der Abschied from Das Lied von der Erde](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q_bwuSK7U34). Story title is from [a Naughty Boy song featuring Bastille](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JW6WOBk0cfE). 
> 
> Aaaand we're done. Thank you for reading!


End file.
